Gilliane (Roselynde Chronicles, Book Four)

by Roberta Gellis

  No one responded very heartily to this statement at the time, since Osbert’s reaction in the face of the threatened raid had given most of the other men a hearty distaste for his company. He was jaunty enough, believing that no one had noticed his cowardice in the confusion, but rumors of his behavior at the assault on Hertford had begun to creep upward from the men-at-arms to their masters, and his recent action had confirmed the truth of those tales. Osbert was not desired as a neighbor or supporter in the coming battle for Berkhampsted. Nonetheless, his remark was repeated with a sly snicker here and there, and the seeds of suspicion planted between English and French contingents were well watered.

  Needless to say, the situation was in no way improved when news came from Lewes and from Knepp about the raiding party that had used “Dunmow” as its battle cry. The French lords who held the keeps flew to Louis to complain.

  “It is ridiculous,” Louis said. “FitzWalter is here and no large party of his men is missing. Moreover, he has no interest in that part of the country.”

  It was ridiculous. If FitzWalter’s men had business in Sussex, why should they not present themselves and demand hospitality? They were allies and would be received. No, that was silly. If FitzWalter wished to keep his interest in the area secret, he would forbid his men to announce themselves at any keep. But then, surely, the men would not use “Dunmow” as a battle cry. Even Englishmen could not be that stupid! Unless—it might not be stupid at all, especially if FitzWalter expected men to think, as Louis himself had first thought, that no one could be that stupid. FitzWalter, Louis told himself, would bear watching—most careful watching.

  Louis was beginning to be concerned at the rapidly increasing bitterness of the English barons. He was not ready to change his policy of keeping power out of their hands, but he believed it would be most unwise to increase their animosity by any further slights. He had spoken quite sharply to the Count of Perche about the incident involving de Mandeville and had gone to the trouble of calling that gentleman into his presence to sympathize publicly with his loss. Thus, Louis had no intention of permitting FitzWalter to be annoyed by a complaint that he could claim was so farfetched and ridiculous that bringing it against him was a harassment.

  Louis dismissed the men, but the situation did not pass so readily from his mind. Something would have to be done both to pacify FitzWalter and to discover whether he really was involved in the trouble in Sussex. No immediate solution presented itself to Louis, until another complaint was brought before him, this one concerning the depredations of Osbert de Cercy’s men. At first Louis could not recall who Osbert was, but the de Cercy name finally made connection in his mind with Tarring, which was only a few miles from Lewes. Since Osbert’s cowardice was already a standing joke in the camp, Louis knew he was useless in battle. He could employ him in another duty and be rid of his men who only disrupted the camp. Since Osbert knew the lands around Lewes, he could go there and determine who was raiding the farms and trying to blame FitzWalter for it.

  Louis was quite pleased with this plan and felt he had extracted considerable good from the misfortune of the attack on Lewes and Knepp. The prince did not know, however, that the mischief Adam had done had already spread beyond his control. News of the raiders who had cried “Dunmow” had come not only to the holders of Lewes and Knepp but also to the Earl of Arundel. This gentleman was not overclever, but he had become aware of the miasma of contempt for the English barons that floated around Louis. Thus, he would not go to the prince for satisfaction but took his complaint directly to FitzWalter.

  Perhaps the complaint could have been phrased more diplomatically. A clever man would have—as Louis intended—raised the point in terms of warning FitzWalter that someone was using his battle cry to get him into trouble. Such subtleties were beyond Arundel, who took everything at its exact face value and berated FitzWalter for permitting his men to raid the territory of an ally.

  “I do not blame you for sending them to take what they could get from the accursed French,” Arundel concluded indignantly. “The way they act, you would think they were masters of this land instead of invited guests in it. But I am no French reaver. If we do not respect each other, no one will respect us.”

  FitzWalter was not in the best possible temper, and besides he did not like Arundel, who spoke often of honor and duty, saw things in black and white, and had truly believed when he deserted John and joined Louis that he was doing it for the sake of the country. Arundel was blustering about how his people would have been glad to supply FitzWalter’s men if they had asked in a civil way—and FitzWalter’s temper snapped.

  “Only you could be fool enough to believe that my men would raid your lands crying aloud my battle cry,” FitzWalter snarled. “Do you think I am an idiot?”

  “What do you mean—only I?” Arundel asked stiffly.

  “By the eyes and nose of Christ, a man who steals something does not scream his name into the ears of those he is robbing,” FitzWalter stormed. “They were not my men! What the hell would my men be doing down by Arundel anyway? Think, man, try to think.”

  Arundel rose to his feet, his face set and angry. He was dull, but not an idiot. When a thing was pointed out to him, he could see and grasp it. He merely did not see side paths to a situation on his own. Now that FitzWalter had made a denial and pointed out the evidence, Arundel saw the logic. It was true enough that if FitzWalter had sent the men, he would have told them to use a different battle cry. Arundel even understood that there was some cause for FitzWalter to be annoyed. No man likes to be accused of something he has not done. Still, he did not like the tone of voice FitzWalter used, nor did he like being called a fool. That was neither polite nor necessary. In addition, he did not like FitzWalter. He had strong suspicions that FitzWalter had become involved with Louis for personal profit and not for the good of the realm.

  Only long training in matters of courtesy kept Arundel from dragging FitzWalter to his feet and forcing a quarrel on him. He had come as close to that as good manners permitted him to come in a man’s own house. He needed some outlet for his spleen, but he would not think of complaining of a fellow countryman’s behavior to the French, whom he was coming to hate, and he was even reluctant to complain of FitzWalter to the other English barons in Louis’s camp. One other form of pacification was possible and was completely harmless. Arundel stamped back to his own part of the camp, signaled a small troop of men to accompany him, and went to exercise off his bad temper in a long ride.

  He was not going anywhere in particular and paid no attention to the direction in which he rode. After a few miles he noticed a small village ahead that was obviously defended. A rough wall of trees, roots forward with their lopped branches interwoven to provide a barrier, surrounded the place. Then Arundel remembered that this was Geoffrey FitzWilliam’s land. He stared for a moment indecisively and then, still furious at the slights he had received, sent a man down to ask whether Lord Geoffrey would receive him.

  Half an hour later a small troop rode into the village and Arundel saw his man coming back, followed by a single mailed knight. At the sight of the shield he bore, Arundel rode forward eagerly.

  “De Vipont!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

  “I am helping my son-by-marriage guard his lands against the French,” Lord Ian answered—as if there were no Englishmen involved in the action against Berkhampsted and Arundel was not himself a member of the force. “Geoffrey was not in the keep when your message came, but I am sure he will receive you with great pleasure.”

  “I will need safe conduct to leave again,” Arundel said cautiously. “Er…uh…you know I am…er…Louis’s man.”

  “Of course,” Ian replied genially. “Upon my honor, you will be free to leave as soon as you desire—free of the keep and the lands also—without let or hindrance. Come and dine with us. You must be tired of camp fare after that siege at Hertford and now another.”

  “Thank you, I will.”

&nbs
p; Arundel already felt much better. The obvious pleasure Lord Ian displayed at meeting him was soothing. They were not friends in the sense of seeking each other out, but they had known each other for many years and each had a hearty respect for the other as an opponent and as a man. Arundel did not feel even the smallest flicker of doubt concerning his safety as he rode with ten men toward a castle holding several hundred who were technically his enemies. Lord Ian’s word was a perfect guarantee that Arundel would be as safe in Hemel as in his own camp—safer, actually, because in Hemel there was no chance that he would be attacked by a raiding party from Berkhampsted.

  Tactfully Ian began talking of a tourney fought ten years previously, long before the kingdom had been openly split and drawn into civil war. Arundel eagerly followed this lead and, in pleasant reminiscence, they came into Hemel, where Geoffrey came forward with hands outstretched in welcome saying Arundel’s visit did him much honor as he placed his guest in the best chair by the fire. He called for wine, moved away to set a small table more conveniently near Arundel’s elbow—and his eyes met Ian’s. In answer to his unspoken question, Ian raised his brows and shrugged infinitesimally. He did not know why Arundel had come. The wine arrived and was poured. As the warmth of the fire penetrated, Arundel shed his cloak and gloves, and agreed to be relieved of his mail, although he refused a bath. They talked pleasantly of their womenfolk, which brought Arundel back to the ten-year-past tourney.

  “I did not understand that jousting,” he remarked, shaking his head. “Nor for that matter did I understand why John should have chosen you king’s champion. It seems to me—”

  Ian burst out laughing and interrupted him, but neither he nor Geoffrey missed the hurt and anger that came into Arundel’s face. That gave them to understand that someone had been making jest of Arundel’s slow mind.

  “I beg your pardon,” Ian said hastily. “I was not laughing at you, Arundel, but at my own stupidity in falling into John’s trap. Great care was taken that you should not guess anything of what was planned because you are known to all as a man of honor and you would never have countenanced the king’s doings.”

  “I do not see that you were so stupid, Ian,” Geoffrey put in, skillfully picking up his cue. Although he had been only a young squire at the time, Geoffrey knew that Ian had not fallen into John’s trap but had accepted the danger to achieve a purpose of his own. For some reason, Ian wanted now to emphasize his personal problems with John. “Who could have guessed that the king would take so violent a spite at you for having married Lady Alinor that he would plot to have you killed?”

  “Was that what it was?” Arundel gasped.

  “Yes, and it was not the only time,” Ian answered wryly. “When John took a spite, he never forgot it.”

  “Yet you were faithful to him,” Arundel said, with a tinge of bitterness in his voice.

  Ian made a gesture of negation. “Not out of love. To speak the truth, I do not know how to explain that to you, William, only… All I can say is that I hated the king so hard that I could not part from him. You will think me mad, but when John died, I was heartbroken. My hatred was so much a part of my whole life… Well, that does not matter now. What was more important in a practical way was that I liked the men opposed to John even less than I liked the king. You will pardon me, I hope, for speaking ill of your friends, but—”

  “They are no friends of mine,” Arundel snapped angrily.

  Geoffrey’s eyes glowed golden for a moment as the firelight caught them raised to his guest, and then he looked down again. So this was where Ian had been aiming to get. Ian had seen more clearly than he had. Most likely because he and Arundel—except that Ian was certainly not stupid—were truly birds of a feather. Basically, they were simple men who wished that all things were plain black and white. Ian had seen that Arundel had been hurt and angered by something or someone among Louis’s men, and had set himself to showing Arundel where his true friends and sympathizers were.

  There was a moment of silence while Ian and Geoffrey tried to think of something to say. Arundel saved them the trouble.

  “Men make mistakes,” he remarked heavily.

  “God knows that is true, and I have made many,” Ian agreed quickly. “It is all too easy to make a mistake on matters of state.”

  “That is often a hard choice,” Geoffrey added, “and, to my shame, one I feared to make. My lord, even if you now feel you chose wrong, at least you had the courage to choose. All men must honor you for that. Like a coward, I locked myself into my keep, afraid to follow either my heart or my head.”

  Ian cast a glance of warm admiration at his son-by-marriage. Geoffrey had said in plain words but with the utmost delicacy exactly what had to be said. In a few brief sentences, he had flattered Arundel, while agreeing with him that he had made a bad choice, and, in addition, had made it very plain that if Arundel wished to change sides again he would be received with honor rather than scorn. From the lift of Arundel’s head and the squaring of his shoulders, it was clear that Geoffrey’s points had not been missed.

  “Now, now, Lord Geoffrey,” Arundel comforted, “your case was harder than mine. You were tied in blood to John. It is one thing to see a man is a bad king and that no remedy can mend him—and I will tell you outright I still believe that to be true.”

  “I also,” Geoffrey agreed.

  “So you can understand why I felt there was no other path but to choose a new king. However, it is quite another matter to take up arms against one’s own blood kin. Do not blame yourself.”

  “You are very kind, my lord,” Geoffrey sighed. “Still, it remains that I had not the courage…”

  “Perhaps, but see where my courage has placed me,” Arundel exclaimed bitterly. “I would have done better to follow your way, Lord Geoffrey, and to sit on my own land and trust in God. We were given warning enough. Again and again, the pope bade us be obedient and trust in God. I did not listen, and so I am smitten, while to you, who were patient, God has given an answer. John is dead, and you have a king and comrades who honor you.”

  There was a brief silence. Arundel had been brought to say aloud exactly what Ian and Geoffrey wished to hear. Geoffrey began to signal urgently to the servants and the noise of setting up the trestle tables for dinner broke the silence and permitted another tactful change of subject.

  They talked long and pleasantly over the meal. As Arundel’s tongue was oiled by the good food and wine, all the news of Louis’s camp was related, including the raid by the group that had used FitzWalter’s battle cry. Ian and Geoffrey laughed heartily over that, apologizing if they were offending Arundel but well pleased that FitzWalter should be annoyed. Even though he had been a sufferer, Arundel laughed with them. In this genial company, he accounted the loss of farm produce far less important than FitzWalter’s rage. The light of the short winter day was already fading by the time dinner was over, and Arundel regretfully took his leave.

  “I cannot break my given word,” Arundel said, clasping Ian’s and Geoffrey’s hands in turn, “but if God sees fit to save me from my own foolishness, I will not err in such a way again. And you can tell your friend Pembroke, Lord Ian, that I wish I had listened to him—and there are many others among us who wish the same.”

  “You may be sure I will tell him and that he will understand perfectly why you must act as you do. You may also be sure that if you should be freed from your present bondage, you will be most honorably received by King Henry, who is a sweet child and has had no false tales poured into his ears.”

  “Is that so?” Arundel said thoughtfully. “I will remember.”

  He rode away, and Ian and Geoffrey watched him. “That was a good day’s work we did for the king,” Geoffrey remarked. “Lord, what a dunderhead.”

  “Perhaps,” Ian agreed a little absently, “but he is at least an honest dunderhead. He rebelled because he could not bear John and his ways, not for the sake of breaking all authority so that he could raid and pillage—and, speaking of ra
ids, who do you think is yelling ‘Dunmow’ while stealing from the French?”

  “I cannot even guess,” Geoffrey replied as they turned their horses back toward Hemel, “but I think we had better write to Adam. If this is another Willikin of the Weald rising—someone with a personal spite against FitzWalter—then Adam should try to contact him. It may be that Adam could give him some help, but also he should be warned not to raid Kemp or Tarring. And it can do no harm to encourage him in his good work.”

  “You do that,” Ian agreed, “and I will write to Pembroke. Perhaps there is some way he can show Arundel that he would not be spat upon or otherwise slighted if he abandons Louis.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Geoffrey’s letter did not find Adam at Tarring. It had taken the messenger several days to come from Hemel because he had needed to duck and dodge off the roads a number of times, lie hidden for several hours to avoid a party of armed men, and he had ended by losing himself. By the time he found his way to Tarring, Adam and Gilliane had left for Rother.

  They had gone with Cuthbert and a hundred men, fifty of whom had been left in a wooded area about a mile from Glynde. From the brow of a small rise about a half mile from the keep, Adam had sent a messenger to say that Lady Gilliane desired speech with Sir Richard in a place neutral and safe for both. The lady would bring to the exact place of meeting any number of men Sir Richard specified up to one hundred, but she wished Sir Richard to know that one hundred were within call. To their surprise, Sir Richard himself returned with the messenger. Adam dismounted and went forward alone, ignoring Gilliane’s gasp of fear.

  “I am Sir Adam Lemagne,” he said. “Do I have the honor of addressing Sir Richard of Glynde?”